Wrong Hypothesis
by Ravenrising
Summary: "The concept of Red Riding Hood, or Ruby Lucas, did not seem to fit into his neat little box of scientific hypotheses that perhaps he was meant to be alone." One-shot that isn't actually heavy on the science, but heavy on the lack of dialogue and moderate on the fluff. One-shot, Victor/Red


This has definitely not been proof read, but eh.

* * *

The first time he really, _truly _notices her is when he is on a date. Sure, she has always been there just on the edge of his periphery. She always tends to have a smile that while sweet seems to have a fierce edge to it. If he ever stopped into the diner it was a pretty sure bet she would be there.

On that particular day, however, he isn't sure why he cannot seem to take his eyes off of her. There is a faint niggling in the back of his mind, seemingly from out of nowhere. He is captivated by her. His attention switches back to his date in short order, but later on after the date is ended, it occurs to him that he cannot stop thinking of her.

It is not until after the curse is ended, when Storybrooke is more than a simple small town in Maine that he realizes what that first moment of intrigue was-the color red. The first color he had ever seen would forever have a significant hold on his life. He lies in bed, alone, and contemplates that so much of what he is and wants to be is involved and irrevocably tied into the very shade that she consistently wears.

What he wants to be involved with is..._life. _It strikes him as sort of strange that the first color he had ever seen was the color that blood was supposed to be and it is the same shade she surrounds herself with. It occurs to him that if such a thing as fate or destiny exists then perhaps she is intertwined with his. He almost immediately dismisses it as inane. Surely a being, a creature-however lovely-so clearly tied into magic could not have much to do with him. The concept of Red Riding Hood, or Ruby Lucas, did not seem to fit into his neat little box of scientific hypotheses that perhaps he, Dr. Victor Frankenstein, was meant to be alone.

* * *

If there was a spot that had significant meaning for them, it could be this one. At the end of the dock that opened onto the serene waters that would flow into the Atlantic Ocean, they would sit and share secrets, slowly learning about each other. Their friendship began on this dock. They found a connection with each other, monster to monster. As time passes, he slowly comes to the realization that maybe they were wrong-she cannot possibly be as much of a monster as she thinks she is. Someone so full of the one thing that he wants to be known for could not be altogether that bad.

Late at night, after most of Storybrooke has gone to bed, they find themselves sitting on the edge of the concrete wall he once tried to throw himself off of. They share secret pains, borne out of both misery and hope. It started as commiserating and merged into something much more.

One warm night in early summer, she shares how her mother died. She explains she thought that perhaps she might have found somewhere to belong, and in return he offers his hand for her to hold.

When the weather is just starting to turn to stillness-to that last bit of warmth before the leaves fall and the days grow short, he shares what his childhood was like. How much he loved his brother-looked up to him-and sought the approval of his father. How there is still a bitterness in him because he never received it and that on occasion he wishes things were different. That time she offers him her hand and lays her head on his shoulder. Unintentionally, he turns his head to the right and presses a soft kiss to her hair. It is the first time he notices the unique scent of her-that delightful scent of earth and stability.

She shares anecdotes of folklore regarding wolves, most of which she looked up in the town library. She points out Sirius in the night sky on a night when the dock lights were off and she is off on Native American legends about how some tribes call it the "Wolf Star"; Norse mythology has a wolf as a harbinger of the end of the world; how in some Turkic peoples their is a belief that they are descended from wolves.

Sometimes it is quiet between them but they find they do not always need to fill the silence with words. Sometimes they are surrounded by by the gentle breeze coming off of the water, the lull of slow waves and other such night sounds. They are content in that moment, just being together and not having to say anything at all.

It is on one such night that he realizes again how full of life she is. How that seems to call to him in so many aspects and ways. He realizes that perhaps his original scientific hypothesis needs to be revised.

* * *

She could make him laugh. It is a late night. He just came from the hospital and she is closing the diner. He found himself unnecessarily bribed with a free meal while she worked on closing up. He would have shown up just to see her. He is sitting at the counter still when he realizes she has been dancing to the music she has playing-something about wolves, of course. He lets forth a loud laugh, entirely unable to help it.

The red shirt she is wearing catches his attention. It is muted today, a darker shade then she usually sports, but it looks beautiful on her. The fact that he thinks that without any pause makes him stop.

He makes a strange grunt when he realizes he _likes _that he thinks that.

"What is it?" she inquires.

She pauses as she leans forward on the table she was wiping down.

"Ah, nothing. Just strange theories floating through my head," he replies.

She gives him a look he has come to know well, the one that says she is not buying whatever he is selling today.

He says nothing, merely stands and walks to the other end of the counter. He increases the volume of the song currently playing, a slow tune not entirely suited to dancing but he can make it work.

Calmly he strolls up to her. He plucks the damp rag from her hand and tosses it on the table. He takes her right hand in his and places his other on her waist. Her free hand comes to rest on his shoulder out of reflex.

"What are you doing?" she says. She stutters just a little, but he pretends not to notice.

He begins to lead her in a slow turn.

"I'm testing a theory," he replies.

His hypothesis has up and changed on him again, seemingly without his consent. He is not really bothered by it at all.

* * *

He longed to learn every aspect of her makeup. He was positive there had to be a science behind the magic of her transformation. He had hesitated in requesting to see her as _canis lupus_, half afraid that he might offend her or turn her from him.

She surprises him at every turn. She gives a small smile, upturning the left side of her mouth more than the right. That fierce smile only lasted a brief second. The smile fades and her eyes turn down, focusing on their feet.

"Are you positive?" she whispers.

He stares at her, contemplating. A multitude of thoughts fly through his mind, emotions and repercussions and psychological aspects.

Her eyes meet his for a brief moment and he could almost swear there is a hint of shame.

"I didn't mean-" he starts and stops.

He makes a split decision then, putting aside science and letting the way he feels guide him. He curls his hand around her arm. The thread of her vibrant red sweater is soft against his hand.

He slides his hand up and over her shoulder. Her hair shifts in the gentle breeze and he is suddenly enveloped in a heady mixture of earth scents-citrus and clove, woodsmoke and amber. It strikes him that the scent is perfect for her. It is grounding and strong.

"You fascinate me," he confesses. He lifts his hand to brush her hair behind her ear. "Everything about you. All aspects of you."

His brow furrows a bit, his mouth a straight line. It occurs to him that he never expected it; never expected to be so utterly captivated.

He opens his mouth and closes it once. She is staring at him intently now, patiently. She quirks up an eyebrow and he begins to see that half-smile that she favors form.

"You can't scare me away," he says.

She heaves a sigh then and lets her eyes close.

"Okay," she says, and then she nods.

Swiftly she discards the red sweater, tossing it at him in the next instant. He would be lying if he said he was pleased that she has a black short sleeved shirt on underneath.

He takes a short step back to give her space. There is a momentary pause while they wait for the cloud cover to disperse; to unfetter the moonlight.

For an instant she is fluid, caught in the chasm between human and werewolf and his heart gives an odd sort of flutter.

He is rendered speechless for a moment. She allows him to circle around while she sits on her haunches. He runs the tips of his fingers over her velvet-like ears. She stares at him with golden eyes and it occurs to him it is his second favorite color.

"Magic," he breathes.

It is all he can think to say. He wants to state that if she is magic then surely magic cannot be all bad-that perhaps science is not the only thing he should study. There was more he wanted to do; wanted to speak and contemplate, but the clouds move back in and the moon vanishes. She is back in the in-between of wolf and human and then stands before him. She puts her sweater back on a little hesitantly-almost as if she is concerned he will think ill of her.

One aspect of her transformation lingers for a brief moment and he seizes the chance to tell her.

"Your eyes," he murmurs. "They're the most stunning shade of gold."

His hand cradles her cheek, his thumb gently sweeping up and over the apple of her cheek. It occurs to him then, in that moment when the moon begins to shine again overhead and she stares at him with absolute trust, that he is absolutely positive he wants nothing more than her.

He bends his head and presses his lips to hers. He is glad his scientific hypothesis is completely wrong.

I have no idea where this really came from other than I was driving home from work today. I had a random string of thoughts and this was borne. I ship these two, obviously.


End file.
